


World-Wrecked

by FrostedFox



Category: Dead Like Me
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostedFox/pseuds/FrostedFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What was it you were going to say about blood?”<br/>	“Just about how it still runs, you know? Despite being dead, the same blood seems to keep on flowing on through our veins. Makes you feel not very dead at all.”<br/>	“I feel dead.”<br/>	“Yeah,” Mason confessed. “Me too.”<br/>--<br/>"No spiritual Caesars are these dead;<br/>They want no proud paternal kingdom come;<br/>And when at last they blunder into bed<br/>World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion."<br/>- Sylvia Plath</p>
            </blockquote>





	World-Wrecked

The left side of her body was burnt. Almost to a crisp. George glanced down at her arm and saw what looked like the blackened edges of the bacon she often leaves on the side of the Der Waffle Haus plate. Fuck. Something in her brain whirred and hummed. The world twirled before her eyes. George began to collapse when she felt the warmth of another body pressing against her, keeping her upright. 

“Hey, Georgie. You alright?” Mason. 

“Mm,” she replied. It was all she could muster. 

“Hey now. Hold on. Don’t you black out on me. I swear to god, George.”

“Can you just shut up?”

“I’m taking you home.” George couldn’t argue with the offer.

 

*

 

She held consciousness for the entire walk to her apartment. Three times Mason tried to make small talk but George wouldn’t have any of it. When he had jimmied the door and dumped George onto the murphy bed, he plunked his own body onto the ground, cross-legged like a child. When George opened her eyes she saw his blue ones staring right back. 

“You watching me sleep?”

“Nah. You’re not sleeping.”

“Seriously. Why aren’t you leaving?”

“It’s warmer in here.” One death-look from George and the humour in his eyes dissolved. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“I remember the first time I got fatally injured.”

“When you drilled that hole in your head?”

Mason glared. “I mean after that. When I was dead. It really freaked me out, George.”

“Yeah?”

“It was an explosion. Fire, like you. Fire’s a bitch.” George closed her eyes. “Listen, love. You’re going to have to clean up if you want it to heal quick.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do. I’m not taking your reaps for the next six days while you super-heal your infection.”

“Six days?”

“Could be. You never know with this sort of thing. So whaddya say to a shower or something?”

“I can’t get up.”

“For fucks sakes, George. What do you weigh, like 100 pounds? 120?” George scoffed into the mattress. 

“Fine. Help me up.”

Mason held her steady to the bathroom, helped her peel the shirt off her crisped skin. She shooed him out before she removed any other articles of clothing. The water stung like a bitch, but it sped the healing considerably. When George stepped out of the shower, her skin was a light pink. Raw and fresh. She combed her hair with her fingers before wrapping herself in a towel and stepping into the bedroom.

“There. I’m all healed. Can I sleep now?”

Mason finished flipping through the deceased homeowner’s CD collection and stood from where he was perched on the bed. “Let me see.” George held out her left arm for inspection. She held the towel against her chest with her right. Mason’s fingers were cold when he touched her, and George flinched. “Sorry,” he muttered, not looking up from her arm. “Jeez. I wish I would’ve thought to shower after my first burn.”

“I wish you would think to shower at all,” George retorted. Mason didn’t hear the jab, or just didn’t care. He flipped her arm to expose her wrist, rubbing his thumb along the veins.

“Incredible. You ever think about blood, Georgie?”

“Yeah, Mason. Every goddamn mon-- Wait a second. Do I still ...?”

Mason looked up, confused for a moment before catching on. “How the hell should I know?”

“Right.” George felt dumb for asking, but she still wanted to know. “Guess I can’t have kids now.” Mason’s eyes betrayed, for a moment, sadness. Maybe it was pity. God, she hoped not.

“Did you want kids?”

“No. I mean. I never thought about it. I’m-- I was 18 years old.”

“I thought about it, and I would be a right fuck up with a kid. Everyone thinks about it.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t.” A silent beat passed between them. Mason let George’s arm drop to her side. She shivered and became aware that she was still in a towel. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“I need to change. Turn around.”

“Maybe I should just ...”

“No. Please ... please don’t go.” Mason turned around. George went to the dresser and pulled out a t-shirt and sweatpants. There was only so much clothing she could take from her old house without arousing suspicion. This would have to do for acceptable pajamas. 

Once she was dressed, she burrowed her legs under the blankets on her bed. At the sound, Mason turned to face her. George patted the bed, inviting him to sit. 

“So what was it you were going to say about blood?”

“Just about how it still runs, you know? Despite being dead, the same blood seems to keep on flowing on through our veins. Makes you feel not very dead at all.”

“I feel dead.”

“Yeah,” Mason confessed. “Me too.”

 

*

 

The red light of the clock shone 1:58 am into George’s eyes when she lifted her head. There was something warm and heavy half-pinning her down. When she was awake enough to think clearly, she realized it was Mason’s arm. Mason. Who had fallen asleep on her bed. Well, she did ask him not to leave. 

She shoved his arm away and rolled over to face him. At her movement, his eyes flickered and opened. 

“Shit,” George whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine,” he croaked. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What time is it?”

“2.”

“S’not so bad, then.” He closed his eyes. 

“Mason?”

“Mm?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Have you tried?”

“Mason.” He sighed, and pushed himself up so his back was against the headboard. George stared up at him from the pillow. He looked down. 

“You look cute from this angle,” he said. George abruptly pushed herself up to join him against the headboard. “Pity.” George hit him in the arm. “Oh yeah, that’s the way to get a guy’s affection. Physical abuse.”

“Who says I’m looking for affection?” There was silence and then, “Oh.”

“Nah, come on Georgie. I didn’t mean--”

“It’s fine. Besides, I already know you think I’m cute. And pretty.”

“When did I say pretty?”

“First day I met you. Saw my dopple in the screen.”

“I said you were prettier than-- what do you call her? Mable?”

“Millie. And yeah. Pretty. You called me--”

His lips were on hers, crushing her. His hands travelled down the length of her body as he swiveled and climbed over her, his hips in line with her own. Mason’s fingers fumbled at the waistband of her sweat pants. He pushed past the not-quite elastic waist and his fingers crept down. George’s breath hitched. Her gut reaction was to pull away; before she could stop herself she was on the other side of the bed, about to topple onto the ground. Mason lurched forward and grabbed her wrist to steady her. When it was clear she had regained a sense of balance, he pulled back, giving George her space. His expression was horrified. There was no other verb.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. George, I’m an idiot. I didn’t-- I forgot--”

“I’ve kissed boys before.” She couldn’t stop herself from saying it. She couldn’t form a proper apology for freaking out, and she couldn’t stop from babbling. “In school. I had a boyfriend. We kissed. I’m not-- I didn’t--”

“I should go,” Mason said. A pit dropped in George’s stomach. This isn’t what she wanted. 

“Mason,” she whispered. He tugged his jacket on, turned to face her. 

“It’s not your fault, George. Just, get some sleep.”

He left, and with the sound of the door closing came an overwhelming sense of anxiety. 

 

-


End file.
